success.”
“And do you think that’s true?” Patrick inquired.
Samson shushed him, as being out of line, but I waved my hand to show I was not offended by the inquiry. Slowly, thinking aloud, I responded, “Only if John was wrong about who he proclaimed Jesus to be.”
“Why not …,” Patrick began, then continued over Samson’s protests, “why not go hear for yourself?”
And so it was arranged. Patrick accompanied me, while Samson continued to tend the wine.
John was baptizing at Aenon, near Salim, on the east bank of the Jordan. It took us a day to journey there, with me on the white mare and Patrick riding another of Samson’s donkeys.
Aenon was a village located on a tributary of the Jordan.
Our route lay along the stream, which chuckled and laughed as it ran down from Mount Ebal. As the water reached the level of the valley floor, the rivulet slowed and spread out, forming a series of pools and ponds, perfect for John’s purposes.
“Is the Baptizer safe here?” Patrick inquired.
I considered the matter. “I think so. More importantly, he must think so.” Reining to a halt on a knobby hill, I raised my free hand to draw an imaginary half circle from west to east. “We are near the border of four provinces: Galilee and Samaria on this side of the river, Perea and the Decapolis on the other. Over there is Wadi Cherith, where the Lord sent Elijah the prophet to hide from wicked King Ahab.”
“So he would be safer over there?”
I shrugged. “But on this bank he is near Salim … ancient Salem … where Melchizedek was both ruler and priest. Even Father Abraham honored the King of Peace and Righteousness.”
Shading his eyes against the sun, Patrick said, “I think I see a group of people by that pond, there. And the man standing up to his waist in the water …”
“… is the Baptizer,” I confirmed.
His beard and hair wiry and unkempt, he seemed leaner than when I had last seen him.
At opposite ends of the pond, their backs to us, were two knots of men. A handful, dressed much as John was, appeared to be his remaining disciples.
The group at the other extreme was better clad, with colorful robes and clean turbans: Pharisees, by the look of them.
Between the two opposing forces, twenty-five onlookers jostled with each other as they listened to the exchange.
Patrick called my attention to a figure at the edge of the audience. “Isn’t that Master Porthos?”
It was the Greek, listening attentively to the dialogue.
“Where are your crowds now?” one of the Pharisees taunted. “The whole world is running after the Nazarene. What do you say to that?”
I could not imagine that rich men would come into this wilderness merely to mock someone they despised. What was their motive?
Another jibed, “He keeps company with tax collectors and drunkards and all manner of sinners. What do you say to that?”
“I say that you are a brood of vipers,” John snapped back at them. “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? I tell you, he is already separating the wheat from the chaff.” Leveling a bony index finger, John shook it in their faces. “Soon enough the chaff will be heaped up and burned!”
The Pharisee jeered, “Where have the rest of your own disciples gone? Maybe they prefer wine and feasting to eating locusts and drinking cold water!”
I was surprised that John’s reply, though forcefully stated, was not shouted in anger. Shaking his head firmly, he responded: “He must increase, while I must decrease.”
“And what about Herod Antipas?” another man in a brocade robe shouted.
Now John threw his head back and the old fire roared to life in his response: “That snake? The tetrarch knows full well all the sins he is guilty of! Does he merely add adultery to murder, or is it the other way around? The sword of judgment hangs over his head as surely as it fell on King Ahab of old and his Jezebel!”
What happened next was sudden and violent, and the reason
“And do you think that’s true?” Patrick inquired.
Samson shushed him, as being out of line, but I waved my hand to show I was not offended by the inquiry. Slowly, thinking aloud, I responded, “Only if John was wrong about who he proclaimed Jesus to be.”
“Why not …,” Patrick began, then continued over Samson’s protests, “why not go hear for yourself?”
And so it was arranged. Patrick accompanied me, while Samson continued to tend the wine.
John was baptizing at Aenon, near Salim, on the east bank of the Jordan. It took us a day to journey there, with me on the white mare and Patrick riding another of Samson’s donkeys.
Aenon was a village located on a tributary of the Jordan.
Our route lay along the stream, which chuckled and laughed as it ran down from Mount Ebal. As the water reached the level of the valley floor, the rivulet slowed and spread out, forming a series of pools and ponds, perfect for John’s purposes.
“Is the Baptizer safe here?” Patrick inquired.
I considered the matter. “I think so. More importantly, he must think so.” Reining to a halt on a knobby hill, I raised my free hand to draw an imaginary half circle from west to east. “We are near the border of four provinces: Galilee and Samaria on this side of the river, Perea and the Decapolis on the other. Over there is Wadi Cherith, where the Lord sent Elijah the prophet to hide from wicked King Ahab.”
“So he would be safer over there?”
I shrugged. “But on this bank he is near Salim … ancient Salem … where Melchizedek was both ruler and priest. Even Father Abraham honored the King of Peace and Righteousness.”
Shading his eyes against the sun, Patrick said, “I think I see a group of people by that pond, there. And the man standing up to his waist in the water …”
“… is the Baptizer,” I confirmed.
His beard and hair wiry and unkempt, he seemed leaner than when I had last seen him.
At opposite ends of the pond, their backs to us, were two knots of men. A handful, dressed much as John was, appeared to be his remaining disciples.
The group at the other extreme was better clad, with colorful robes and clean turbans: Pharisees, by the look of them.
Between the two opposing forces, twenty-five onlookers jostled with each other as they listened to the exchange.
Patrick called my attention to a figure at the edge of the audience. “Isn’t that Master Porthos?”
It was the Greek, listening attentively to the dialogue.
“Where are your crowds now?” one of the Pharisees taunted. “The whole world is running after the Nazarene. What do you say to that?”
I could not imagine that rich men would come into this wilderness merely to mock someone they despised. What was their motive?
Another jibed, “He keeps company with tax collectors and drunkards and all manner of sinners. What do you say to that?”
“I say that you are a brood of vipers,” John snapped back at them. “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? I tell you, he is already separating the wheat from the chaff.” Leveling a bony index finger, John shook it in their faces. “Soon enough the chaff will be heaped up and burned!”
The Pharisee jeered, “Where have the rest of your own disciples gone? Maybe they prefer wine and feasting to eating locusts and drinking cold water!”
I was surprised that John’s reply, though forcefully stated, was not shouted in anger. Shaking his head firmly, he responded: “He must increase, while I must decrease.”
“And what about Herod Antipas?” another man in a brocade robe shouted.
Now John threw his head back and the old fire roared to life in his response: “That snake? The tetrarch knows full well all the sins he is guilty of! Does he merely add adultery to murder, or is it the other way around? The sword of judgment hangs over his head as surely as it fell on King Ahab of old and his Jezebel!”
What happened next was sudden and violent, and the reason
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